strength and beauty in sweetpeas and life

By Sally A. I. Wall


This afternoon, the storm clouds broke up for a few minutes, minutes enough for me to go out to the veggie patch and gently pull the newly rooted baby crab grass, which was threatening to choke out the courageous sweetpeas, who had braved the stormy blasts of May and early June. The day I planted out those tender seedlings in early May, the North wind came with a vengeance, bringing with it freezing temperatures, blasting out the life from my little sweetpeas, and laying them on the ground. Most of them succumbed. I left them alone, not believing that they'd come back, but I just didn't have the heart to turn them under. It's now the middle of June, and I'm astonished that something so fragile as a sweetpea can turn its nose up at the North wind, and with a little sunshine, plenty of rain, and some lovely muggy warmth, pick itself up by the bootstraps and start again from the ground up! That is precisely what has happened to about half the row. The roots were unscathed by Jack Frost's kiss, and they simply formed 'tillers', an Old English term meaning by-shoots, forming a stronger plant by way of a rotten trick of fate carried on the wings of the wind.

It can be that way, too, for humankind. Fate's ugly hand can come knocking at your door, and before you know it, there you are, lying alongside the fallen sweetpeas. Some really do succumb, like the little seedlings, too weakened by the blow to form 'tillers'; but many, even if they lie there for a while, will be brought back to health by the warm love of friends, the encouragement of those who have been there before, and by the grace of God find new life, stronger life, in this far friendlier environment. It's very important to make sure that this new strength is not choked out by even the tiniest, tenderest baby 'crab grass' of life; it must be kept clear and clean. Before too long, that poor devastated life has branched out, reached out, and has become far stronger than it could ever have imagined. Now that life is an encouragement to others, rather than the victim of circumstance, and people draw from that well and are nourished.

In the same way, in a month or so, I shall draw in my breath deeply, as I take in the delightful aroma of the beautiful sweetpeas, and be nourished. A scent full of memories of my childhood, so long ago, yet so present in this dear, tendrilled flower.

my grandfather's walks

By Sally A. I. Wall


Over the hills? Or by the honey lady? Whichever way we chose, it was sure to be an exciting adventure back to Pa and Gramsie's house in "the Old Grey Mare," one of the Austins that my grandparents owned in the fifties. If I knew ahead of time that we would be going through the New Forest, I would always make sure that I had a sturdy piece of string, in case we saw the wild ponies...

My mother's parents lived on the south coast of England, right on the cliffs, but far enough back from the edge to know there was little danger of the house sliding down, as was the case further down the way towards the Bears. So-named were the white cliffs, afar off. On a clear day, 3 polar bears carved by the wind into the chalky cliffs, plodded along toward the east.

Pa loved to walk, and walk, and walk, and walk. "Miss A." he'd say. "Please go and get my walking shoes."

Pa's room was a room of strict order. His bed was always made, tops dusted, everything in its place, including his shoes, which were lined up under his bay window which overlooked the sea. His driving shoes, walking shoes, eating shoes, shopping shoes and shoes to wear to the barber were all lined up, ready for inspection! They all looked pretty much the same to me, beautifully polished leather, some with tiny holes that formed feathery patterns on the sides. His walking shoes were just plain brown lace-ups.

There were a few things that absolutely had to come along with us on Pa's walks: his penknife, a crisp juicy apple such as Cox's Orange Pippin, and his "ticker" pills. Invariably, we'd walk to the pier, a good 5-mile trot there and back. He'd let us choose: Along the top there, and back along the sands and up the Zig-Zag. Or, down the Zig-Zag and along the sands there, and back along the top. Really, the only way to experience the Zig-Zag was to fly down it, arms stretched out and slightly back, with a high-pitched whirring sound, Sopwith-style!

Pa was no fool! A couple of hours walking by the sea in the strong wind, and we'd be sleeping like babies before you could wink an eye. We'd have to stop every now and then, to give Pa's poor old heart a rest, and to perk it up with one or two of his "ticker pills" and off we'd go again.

If we were lucky, and it was clear, we'd watch the huge ocean-liners sailing along the English Channel, America bound. Pa was a whiz at identifying the different ships. You could tell by how many funnels they had. We saw the Queen Mary, now docked permanently at Long Beach, California. There was a band-stand at the pier with deck chairs lined up in front, so we'd sit and listen: oom-pah-pah, oom-pah-pah. And out would come the pen-knife and the Pippin.

Everything Pa did was quite deliberate, and extremely perfectly executed. Never was anything done slap-dash, but with the utmost care and attention. And so it was when he peeled the apple. The trick was to start at the top and peel a thin snake round and round and round until you reached the bottom of the apple, and it absolutely was not allowed to break! I don't remember it ever breaking...We'd eat the snake, and he'd divide the apple equally among us. Pips and all, down it would go, even the stalk. Not one bit of the apple was wasted.

Then we'd go down Fisherman's Walk and feed the squirrels some nuts, then the dreaded walk home. The wind was always strong along the top, and he'd have to hang on to his titfer (hat) ((Tit for tat - hat)). I remember the most awful earaches in those days, from the constant buffeting of the wind, I expect. The final climb up to the house, off with the shoes, wash the sand glittering on our feet in the pan of warm water set out by the back door.

Gramsie would have warm milk waiting for us, then bath, then bed. If there was a story, after a line or two, I'd have drifted off, to the muffled voice of a loving Gramsie, and the constant pounding of the wind and waves through the open window...

—Sally Wall, Moss Fairy




Photo: The author as a girl with two of her brothers.

family on nourishment

When I think of what nourishment as a concept means to me, I think of my family. And so, in undertaking this project—of asking others to contribute their ideas on nourishment—I went first to my mother and sisters.

hannah, sister

The first one who responded was Hannah, my oldest sister. Three time zones and three thousands miles away, it turns out we had the same exact thing on our minds. Her response:


That's whack. I wrote this poem yesterday:

If we measure the time between our meeting
by the rotting of tomatoes and
avocados,
I would hope that these pieces
and our movement
is organic,
So they'll rot quicker
And no one goes hungry
with want and waiting in the interim.

Let me be clear:
I want to see you
before the vegetables decay.
I want to see you before you are filled with regret
at the waste, of time and food.
One day we will grow these fruits
together
And feed each other daily,
Nourishment springing up around us
to build a house of trees and vines.
Till then, we place carrots and radishes at acute angles,
pointing to passing,
and posing for decomposition.

xo love you.

—Hannah Wall

emma, sister

My other sister came next, and she said a lot of the same things that I myself have been feeling. I love that supple skin is just as important as relaxation and comfort. All of these things are evidence of bodily and spiritual nourishment.


I have thought about it and decided to tell you words/thoughts that come to mind when I think of nourishment:

Warmth, flavor, drink, comfort, peace, laughter, love, satisfaction, health, blood flow, supple skin, happiness, culinary creations, relaxation, family. When I feel nourished, I feel complete and mentally at peace.

—Emma Kouri

sally, mother

Finally my mother. First I received a voicemail at work: "Nourishment. Certainly is not when your daughter doesn't answer the telephone." I finally got in touch with her and she asked, "is it too late to write something and is it okay if it's not about food?" I said, of course it wasn't, and of course it was (wondering if she would remember how to email it to me). She did.


The other day, Sadie and I went down to the river. It had rained incessantly for a couple of days, and the earth smelt as it should: mossy, heaving with life, warm, wet, dark...and so we went, she and I, unable to resist the call. On the way down, I bumped into a tree, who, indignant, released the captive raindrops she had been hoarding. Drenched from the unexpected 'gift', I could only laugh. I felt a little silly! Sadie, certainly, had no idea what all this mirth represented.

On down to the river, but not to stop at our usual hole. Some adventure beckoned, and we picked up the gauntlet. Ploughing ahead through uncharted bogland, for so it is, black and foreboding, we were astonished at the beauty of the red and orange toadstools, no toads were sitting, however; red cedars sat above the bogs, standing on tippy-toes, high on their snake-like roots, keeping dry. Following the river, we won't get lost now; we came upon a huge rock, covered in moss. Right by the river...deeply swirling.

Sadie plopped into the water, and swam and swam. Oh, my Lord, nobody knows where I am! What if we get sucked into the black, black earth in one of those bogs, we'll never be found! What if there's a bear behind this mossy rock!

All of a sudden, it was very important to head on up to the clearing in the treetops shining all yellow against the blue sky... Don't worry about deer-paths, just plunge and go, quickly! I know that if we just keep going in this direction we'll come to...and there it was! The old familiar path, through the ferns, that wends its way down to Clyde Pond. Ahh...nourishment!

—Sally Wall